


Public Enemies

by roxymissrose



Series: public enemies [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-26
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 18:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
**Title:** Public Enemies part 1 of 4  
 **Author:** roxy  
 **Pairings/Characters:** Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Word Count:** 5364  
 **Summary:** a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.  
 **Notes/Warnings:** abuse, dub-con, harsh images, morally challenged Sam, troubled Dean. There are hints of abuse, physical and sexual, but nothing terribly graphic. The rating is for the overall fic—it varies according to update. The fic features the boys at a very young age.

  


  
[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   


Many thanks go to [](http://rednihilist.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**rednihilist**](http://rednihilist.dreamwidth.org/) , [](http://twinsarein.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**twinsarein**](http://twinsarein.dreamwidth.org/) , [](http://locknkey.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**locknkey**](http://locknkey.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**tabaqui**](http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/). I don't know if you ladies remember this, but ya'll were generous with advice and encouragement.

  
1916

"Brother—there's a rat under the bed!" The bed's metal springs creaked and rang as the small body, that had been keeping the boy somewhat warm, shifted.

"No there ain't, you're just trying ta get another bed-time story. Go ta sleep, I tell ya. If he comes home and you're still awake, we'll both be in trouble." The boy pulled the blanket up over his head, but the younger boy wouldn't be silenced. He grabbed the blanket and yanked and yanked until the other boy sat up straight, hair sticking up like an unruly haystack. That boy, the older boy, planted his hand against the small cheek blotched red with fury, and pushed—knocked the younger boy to his back, who howled at the injustice of it.

"But I'm tellin' the truth! There is one! A big son-ofa-bitch too!"

 _Smack!_

"What the hell have I told ya about cussin'," the older brother said, without a bit of irony in his voice, and ignoring the shriek of outrage. He was almost ready to smack the other boy again, but the sight of him, rubbing his burning cheek, eyes large and dark with tears of rage and betrayal, cooled his own anger. "All right! Lemme check. See there's no--holy smokes! That ain't a rat; it's a g-damn pony! Gimme---"

The boy fished under his pillow and pulled out the knife he kept there all the time, since that one night the man, their father, thought the boy's baby brother might be just the thing to whale on. The rat streaked across the room—the boy took in a quick breath of air and held it--flicked his wrist and the rat was pinned, squealing, to the base board. A sharp grin of satisfaction whipped over his face. "See? You ain't got nothing to worry about as long as I'm with you."

"I know," the younger brother said smugly. "Are you going to take it out now?"

"Saa—am," the boy pulled multiple syllables out of the short name, trying to make his distress plain and maybe play on his little brother's sympathies. "It's the g-damn middle-a winter! It's colder than a cooper's brass balls out there!"

It was a useless ploy on the boy's part. Sam was used to his brother doing whatever he wanted—to head off the waterworks, he always said. Sam squished his face up, made his eyes water and waited, having no doubt his brother would do just what he wanted, and sure enough, the boy rolled his eyes and slid out of bed. He began cursing the moment his feet hit the bare wood planks that made up their floor. The boy yanked the knife out of the wood and smirked as the impaled rat kicked a few times. He rolled his eyes at his baby brother's startled gasp. "It's just kicking the bucket, see. It's dead all right; its legs just don’t know it yet. I'm gonna toss this in the dust bin, and you—go to sleep."

By the time the boy made it down the dimly lit stairs to throw the rat into the cans where no doubt something would pull it out and devour it before day break, and walked back up the stairs and climbed into the narrow bed, the other boy was sound asleep. But, as soon as the boy climbed into bed, Sam snorted softly in his sleep and turned into his chest like a sunflower to the sun. He wrapped his little body around the boy's. Sam was warm for all that he was skinny and tiny as a minute, but the boy appreciated what he was trying to do—give him his heat.

Sam snuffled, and surprised the boy by speaking; he'd thought he was sound asleep. Sam snuffled into his neck, "You're a good brother, Dean."

The boy blushed a little, pleased at his brother's words, but he responded the way he always did, in an effort not to spoil his brother. He frowned and bumped his elbow gently against his brother. "Yaaaa, clam up and get some shut-eye, Sammy, y'hear?"

Sam chuckled sleepily into the back of his neck. "Best brother in the whole world, Dean."

"Yeah, well…go on now, sleep tight, okay?" But Sam was already sleeping, and the boy Dean settled down to listen for their father and to keep watch over Sam.

* * * * * * 

Morning came, but it was the clop-clop of horse's hooves, and the shout of the rag-man that woke them, not sunlight pouring into the windows--here, in the heart of the bowery, sunlight didn't have the nerve to come in. The older boy slipped out of the bed, quiet as a mouse, careful not to wake his brother. He watched him sleep for a bit, and smiled--a rare, real smile. It transformed his face, from pinched and angry to sweet, almost angelic.

He padded barefoot into the kitchen, cringing against the icy linoleum. He broke the ice on the water in the wash bowl, and wondered if their father had brought wood for the stove home…he shrugged. He'd check in a bit. If there was wood, he'd make oatmeal. If not, he would figure out how to get something for Sammy to eat. Maybe the man had forgotten his promise to take care of them but Dean had never forgotten the promise he had made. "Take care of your brother." That's what he aimed to do—no matter what.

* * * * * * 

The man was sitting at the kitchen table; him and a few of his cronies were drinking, smoking foul, cheap cigars. The air in the tiny kitchen was practically blue with it. They split a bucket of beer between them, one that Dean had fetched earlier from Mike's place and a bottle of cheap whiskey. They laughed, and shouted at each other as they slapped cards onto the table. The old table rocked with the movement and legs on the table and the chairs creaked from being abused. Dean listened and frowned, thinking of Sammy trying to sleep…it always sounded like a full-fledged fight going on when the men gathered together.

There was a particularly loud burst of laughter, and, "Ah, Winchester," one of the men spat. "You're full of it, ye did no such thing—"

The table dropped into silence, and the man—John Winchester—narrowed his eyes at the one careless enough to speak out of turn. The light bulb over the table made his squinted eyes a solid black. "Are ye questioning me, then, Matty? Think I'm lying when I'm telling ya I walked right into Assasi's den and put down his right hand man?" he asked the now sweating man in soft, gentle tone, his deep voice rumbling with the words, like thunder coming from far away. Dean nearly rose from his hiding spot in the shadows outside the kitchen door. He tensed all over at the sound of the man's voice—it was one he recognized as _danger coming_.

In the too bright kitchen, silence grew until it blanketed all sound everywhere…or seemed to. Certainly most of them had heard the story--certainly at differing times, there were more bullets, or more smoke, or more blood, but the facts remained. The Italian, Mr. Assasi had caused the death of John Winchester's treasured Mary, and for that he'd declared war, dragging Big Moe's gang into it, that John had gone without the permission of his boss, and really had walked into Assasi's house and killed his lieutenant. He'd have done more but Big Moe Kennedy had called him back, not wanting the bloodshed to spread, not at that time, so sure, he'd punished him—had to….

John Winchester drank himself nearly stupid most nights, locked down in the back of the back, gone to begging for pennies most days—but when Big Moe called on him to apply his expertise, he was swift and merciless, and his oldest son watched and took notes, the way he was watching now as the man John stood over Matty Green and no one at the table made a move to stop John, probably none of them could. He swept a bottle up faster than the eye could follow and before Green registered anything he was on his back on the floor, blood spraying. The move had been so sudden and so bloodily aggressive; it was over before it started. "No one doubts my word," was all the man said before sitting again, and yelling for his son to bring him another bottle, and a few of the fellows there dragged a senseless Green out into the hall.

Dean added another lesson to his personal gospel: move fast, move hard and put your opposition down without a word. He smiled a small private smile. Every lesson he learned was another way to keep the world from hurting his little brother.

* * * * * * 

"I wanna go to Boggy's with you!" Sam swung the belt holding his books together, stopping every few steps to pull his socks up. Dean counted the seconds between hops, one-two-three, stop and yank up a sock, one-two-three, stop and yank up a sock…he snorted and knuckled the back of Sam's head.

"Nope, Squirt, yer goin' to school if I gotta knock you out and tie you up and drop you there."

Sam ran a few feet out of arm's reach before turning and sticking his tongue out. "Won't learn nuttin' if I'm out cold."

"*Nothing*," Dean corrected with a slap to the back of Sam's head when he made the mistake of dancing back in reach. "Speak proper. And shut up about going with me. How many times I gotta tell you no, hunh?"

Sam walked ahead of Dean, bumping his books against the street and rubbing his head. "I *hate* you," he muttered. Dean took a step that trembled just a bit before he sauntered on, cocky as a rooster, past his brother.

"Yeah, well that don't matter see? I don't need for ya ta love me," he grinned. "I need ya to be safe, and smart. I don’t give a shit about anything else."

Sam stopped dead in the middle of the street, making a taxi veer around him, the driver shrieking curses at him. His eyes went wide, darker than their usual mix of green and grey. "You don’t care if I love you?" Tears filled his baby eyes, and his lip trembled. "But you have to!"

Dean reached out and grabbed his collar, yanked him the rest of the way across the street dodging through the crowd. "Don’t be stupid—'course I love ya! You're my brother right? Have to, don't I?"

Sam took in a tremulous breath of relief. "Yeah, that's right—brothers are supposed to love each other." His relief was so obvious it made Dean laugh out loud.

"Okay, okay." He graced Sam with a quick, one-armed hug. "Now get in there and don't come out 'til you're smarter than me."

Sam grinned a wicked slice of a grin. "Don’t even need to go inside then," he giggled.

Dean cuffed him, and pushed him towards the school doors. "Then get in there and don't come back until you're smarter than Dad," and Sam's giggle died, his face locked down.

"Come get me after," he ordered, and walked away without a second glance.

"Wheeeeeo,' Dean whistled. Sam had a bit of a ways to go before he became a man, but you couldn't tell it by the way he acted…Sammy was going to be one tough old bone to gnaw, that much was certain.

He turned and squared his shoulders. He had business of his own now—dinner wasn't going to magically appear in the middle of the table, he thought, and ran off down the avenue.

* * * * * * 

John Winchester was in a mood, that was certain. He stomped around the apartment, yelling into the shadows, cursing men not there, crying out for a woman who'd never be there again. He trailed the smell of whiskey and beer, unwashed skin and despair. He raged, crying out for Assasi's blood, damning Big Moe to hell, wishing himself dead....

Dean had Sammy shoved under the bed with orders not to move, not to speak—not to even breathe too loud. Sammy rolled under the bed, eyes blazing, small mouth set in a harsh, way too grown line, but he obeyed Dean. On this, in matters of his protection, he always obeyed Dean without question. Dean glanced under the bed and even in the dark under it he could see Sammy mouth, _'I hate him.'_

Dean's heart seized a bit. Sammy didn't know any father but that raging drunk tearing apart what little they had, thumping down the short hallway and staggering against their door. Sammy didn't know the man who'd showed Dean how to make paper boats from newspaper, the man who'd held Dean's hand, taken the trolley together to the Park, bought him dogs and clams, back before he took to drinking up the money….

"Boys. Open this door! Open this fucking door or I'll kick it in, ye hear? God damn bastards…fuckin' useless lumps, treatin' me like shit. I'm the boss here, ya got it?" Slam—the sound of a boot smashing something. The wall, a door…"Me. I'm the boss, not some snot-nosed…I oughta…Dean. Dee-aan. I'm sorry. M'sorrysorrysorry…" the voice dwindled down but Dean waited for the thump of his body hitting the floor. Waited a bit until silence filled the place, eventually a stuttering, gasping snore rang out and Dean knew it was safe again.

"Okay, Sam. Can come out now, but maybe…maybe you should go up on the roof, just for a bit, hunh?"

Sam eased out from under their bed; his little frame stiff with anger and fear. "One day, I'm gonna be big too, and he won't do this to us. I'll make *him* scared." His eyes were black with anger and defiance and Dean pulled him in. Kissed the top of his head, and crushed him into his chest.

"You go up on the roof, okay? I'll be there after I put him to bed."

Outside the room, an empty bottle lay on the floor; John was curled around a viscous puddle of vomit, cheek pressed into the mess and the floor wet under his hips. Dean made a face. The man was disgusting but he was his father and family was everything. That's what people said. A man took care of family, best he could. Dean took the knife out of the man's hand, flipped the blade home into its mother of pearl handle, tucked it into his own pocket. John had carved circles into the door frame, eyes into the door, had written snatches of latin, _'Ave Maria, gratia plena'_ , in his own blood over them….

Dean dragged his father to his feet, and into his bedroom. Tumbled him into his bed as he heard the slam of the front door. Sammy leaving. It made Dean tremble inside. This unhappiness crawled into all their hearts, infected them with its blackness, the bleak heavy hold twisting down into all their souls. The death of his mother had been the death of family. This little boy tried his best to hold it back, to hold what was left of them together.

He pulled off John's boots, pulled off his soiled clothes and wiped him down with a wet face cloth. He grimaced and worked at him, rinsing the cloth in the wash basin and washing the night away from his father. He wrapped him up in the blanket, and shut the bedroom door behind him and drew what felt like his first real breath that evening.

* * * * * * 

The roof was quiet, empty with the chill of the air. Sammy sat in corner near the wall, a blanket wrapped a few times around him and sorrow radiating from him. "He hates us, Dean. We didn't even do anything and he hates us"

Den lowered himself on the cold gravel next to Sam and pulled a corner of the blanket around him. "He doesn't. He's just. He's lost, Sam and he can't find his way home."

Sam looked puzzled and said, "But. He's here. This is home, how can he be lost?"

"He's. He just is, okay? And we have to look out for him—"

"No, no *no*. You look out for me. You're supposed to take care of me. He said so." Sam turned so his back was on Dean, and Dean just sighed, a deep, long exhalation of frustration, laced with fondness. His brother was a handful….

"Sammy, don't you ever doubt that you're the most important thing in the world to me…" he plucked the tip of Sam's ear and shoved him with his shoulder, "and stop making me say it, cripes, yer worse'n a little girl with it."

He dug his fingers into Sam's ribs until his brother was torn between giggling and squawking with outrage—"you're a girl! I'm not a girl!" Laughing or not, he wouldn't turn around, and Dean knew he was not completely forgiven, but Sam was generous enough to lean back against him, and Dean was pretty sure he'd breathed out a tiny, contented, sigh.

"You cold, Squirt?"

Sam turned, tucked his head up under Dean's chin and pulled the blanket tighter around the both of them. "Nah, not now," Sam sighed, and pushed ice-cold hands up under Dean's sweater. He shivered hard and lay his hands on his shirt, where Sam's were pressed against his skin, and tried to rub some warmth into them.

* * * * * * 

  
1919  
Dean was in the basement of Bill Boggs's place, a kind of combination social club, pool hall and fence. He'd been sent down to get clean bottles, now he and a few other boys were stealing sips of beer out of the trays set under the barrel spigots. They dipped in their cups and snickered and gulped the almost flat, warm beer and agreed still and all, it was a pretty fine thing to have. It almost filled his belly--

"Dean Winchester—you get up here now, boy," a thin voice called, words cracking at the end of the shout. Dean took the steps two at a time, racking his brain—was he in trouble?

Bill Boggs was standing in the back room, between the pool tables. He jerked his head towards a black door, marked 'private'. Dean followed into the room, a sort of combination bedroom/kitchen/office. Boggs' space. The thin, sharp-faced man dropped twitchy hands onto Dean's shoulders, an over-done look of sorrow on his face. "Dean, my boy, my good boy," Bill Boggs whined. He pulled him into a hug. "My dear, you're going to have to be extra brave…."

Dean tried to pull out of the man's embrace. It was uncomfortable and the heat of the scrawny, boney body pushing up against him made his stomach feel a little squirmy. "Geez, Boggy, get offa me. What're ya goin' on about—" and his heart seized up, ice flooded his veins "—somethin' happen to Sammy? What the—get off! Tell me!" He twisted hard and slipped out of the unwelcome grip.

"It's your dad. The cops took him away; they're sayin' he's not coming back. He killed one of them, your old man. You know what that means. Curtains…"

"They're saying, they're saying--*who's* saying?" Dean shouted, knowing exactly what Boggy meant. Dad was going to the big house, sure—and on the heels of that thought, it sank in, how much hot water him and Sam were in. What was he going to do without his dad? What was he supposed to do? He was just a kid—how was he supposed to take care of Sammy without their dad?

He burst out of Boggy's and into the street, dashed in and out between the carts and stands lining the street, darting through alley ways, ran and ran until his lungs fluttered and burned. He had to get to Sam, quick.

* * * * * * 

They sat on their bed, the two of them wrapped together, like they did in times of stress, in the old blanket Mary had made for Dean, once upon a better time ago.

"Don’t make no sense, that was a punk move, killing a flatfoot. Dad…he's not stupid. Why would he do that?" Dean worried the thought over and over in his head—it didn't add up.

Sammy spared no thought for it. Angry as usual, feeling betrayed by their dad, he cried," I don’t care. He's gone so what are we going to do?" Sammy's cheeks were pale, streaked with the salt trails of dried tears. "I'm really scared, Dean. What are we going to do? Can we stay here?"

Dean bit his lip and shook his head." Paid up to the enda the month, so more'n' likely we'll have to beat feet then, Sam." He knew that meant little—there was a possibility, in fact, an almost certain probability, that the landlord would toss the boys as soon as he heard. Dean looked around their space and contemplated what they'd need, what they could take with them. Their father was in prison and might as well be locked away in some fairy-tale castle for all the good or protection he could give them now. The boy held out some little hope that a friend or acquaintance of his dad would give them a hand but the reality was, they were on their own. Alone.

He was pulled out of thoughts again by a tugging on his sleeve. "Dean?"

"Don’t you worry, Sammy, long as you're with me, nothin' bad will happen to you. Believe that."

* * * * * * 

A few days later, he came home with Sam from school, and found their belongings on the street—though by the time the brothers made it home, it had been picked through and there was nothing useful left…even the old blanket was gone.

Sam cried. "He's gonna be mad his stuff is gone." It hit Sam then "—*my* stuff is gone! You said nothin' bad would happen! Now we got nothin' at all," he wailed and hit Dean in the chest with all his strength.

"Okay, okay—I'll fix it all right? Just—stop." He rubbed the spot that ached all out of proportion to the little fist that'd hit there. The pain went deep, and didn't stop hurting and it took all Dean's will to keep his own tears inside. "I know a place. It ain't great, but it'll be better than the street. Come on."

  
They stood in front of the beat up old keyhole desk in Bogg's private room back at the social club. Sam stood behind Dean, blocked from sight by his brother's body. Bill Boggs looked them up and down. It was dark in the little room, the gas jets were unlit but in the far corner, Dean could make out a dresser, and a bed nearly hidden behind a curtain. He shifted and the new angle let him see the bed, he could make out someone lying in the bed…a boy a little above his age, twisted up in the sheets and sound asleep.

Boggy made a great show of thinking…."A place to stay, hmm? Well, I might be able to help you there. I've got a room or two to let. Truth is, if you don’t keep under cover, Children's Aid will snatch you up…maybe split you up," and seemed to cover a smile at the shocked bleat of horror from behind Dean. His face was full of sympathy, but he kept his eyes from Dean's as he offered, "I have a building, there's a few rooms in the basement. I'd be willing to let you have one for a couple of dollars a week…."

Dean lifted his chin, eyes blazing. "We ain't got nothin', not a damn thing and you know it. Whatya want besides money for that room?"

Boggs made a great show of thinking. "I might need a little help from time to time, is all." Boggs shrugged. "Just a little help, hawk papers, run errands for me, run messages for me from time to time and…" he smiled, a long greasy streak of mirth. "Your brother there all hidden behind you like a ghost, he can go on to school, safe as houses. I'll look after him, promise."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I look after Sam, no one else does."

Boggs licked his lips, struck with the odd sensation of being…afraid of an eleven year old. He sat farther back at his desk. "All right then, all right—there are times, my boy, you look something awful like your old man. Got the same kind of eyes." He shivered. "Murderous," he muttered, and messed about in a desk drawer—tossed Dean a key. "Go on, get the room."

Dean shouldered the one bag that held all they had and closed his hand tight over Sammy's shoulder; cast a wicked look back at Bill Boggs, a look that promised chaos and mayhem if he so much as looked at his little brother. Dean knew what Boggs was, Boggs was a rat, and if he stepped up to ratty goings on, Dean knew there were ways to ice a rat, but good.

* * * * * * 

They lay, fully clothed right down to their boots, on a bed that someone's granny had shoved under the stairs and forgotten long ago. The mattress was lumpy and smelled of damp; the sheets were thread-bare and faded to an odd colorlessness. It was dark under the stairs and it was damn cold. The little stove in the corner held no coal, there was no candles, no electricity, and his little brother was frightened and angry and…sad.

Sam pushed against Dean, the uncertainty of their situation making him react like a toddler again. "Brother. It's cold, I'm hungry. Why can't we eat now, why does it have to be so cold--I don't to stay here, I want to go home, why won’t you take me home--I want something to eat. I want—"

"Sammy! _Please!_ Ya gotta shut yer yap—killin' me with all this!" Dean crammed his fists over her ears, and felt on desperate edge of tears—or screaming. He was supposed to take care of his brother and he was messing it up. He was the screw-up John always said he was, when he was deep in the bottle and the truth came out.

 _"Grabbed that little bastard and left Mary in the place to burn. What's wrong with you, boy, leaving your mother to burn--"_ That's what the old man would say, and then screw up his face and start to cry. "Didn't mean it. Love Samuel. He's mine, I know he is. Not a little bastard. Not my Sam." He'd grab Dean's shirt and bawl—"Ye take care of your brother, y'hear me? Take care of him. Got no one else poor babe. No one else…."

Dean'd let it roll over him like ditch water, the man's rants, from 'the little bastard's not mine, he's the devil's', to 'I love that little boy so much,' and Dean also got to hear how he was a useless steaming pile of shit…sure, the man claimed sometimes that Dean'd make a passable soldier some day but almost always it was that one thing he said, the only thing Dean really heard…how he'd had let his mother burn. His father never answering, never explaining where *he'd* been that day….

Dean heaved a long breath. That was all in the past now, spilled milk. He had one job now; the one he'd always known was the most important. He pulled Sam to him and crushed him quiet against his chest. It was okay, it would be. Life was like hopscotch. It went forward and sideways but eventually, there was home and winning. Somehow, some way, him and Sam both were going to win.

* * * * * * 

"Got ya some books today. Here."

Sam jumped off the bed, grabbed the bag of second-hand books out of Dean's hands and grinned his thanks. "Where ya been?"

"I was doing some work for Boggy. And look what else I got—" he held out salami and cheese, half a loaf of bread.

"Yay! I'm hungry—I've been waiting for you. School was boring. What did you do for Boggy? I hate him. I wrote Dad a letter like you told me to. Did you know Mrs. White on the third floor has five cats? I had tea with her today, she's nice but kinda blind—here—" Sam tossed him a pair of earrings. "They were in a little dish under some junk on her table, she won’t miss 'em."

Dean looked at the earrings in shock that shifted into anger; he grabbed Sam by the arm.

The smack, in the tiny, stifling room sounded like a gunshot. Sam hit the floor with the force of it. He didn’t gasp, didn't curse, didn't ask why—one moment he was prattling on like he always did and the next, he was screaming like he'd been stabbed, screamed like he was being ripped in two.

The bright red handprint covering one side of his face made Dean want to throw up. Sam wouldn't stop and Dean yanked him up, and shoved both hands over his brother's mouth. "Quiet, quiet, please Sammy, oh god, Sammy sorry, be quiet!"

"NO! no--" Sam punched Dean, split his lip, scraped his chin. He kicked out and hit Dean in the stomach, kicked his shins, stamped on his foot and yelled all the while, hurt, angry—devastated.

"Stop it! You can't' steal. 's wrong. You ain't turning into one of them, not like the rest of them punks at Boggy's. You're gonna be better. Better than me. You gotta be." Dean wrestled the hysterical boy to the ground, pinned him with the weight of his whole body and waited for Sam to calm down…when the boy had exhausted himself, Dean sat up, and pulled the shaking, shivering boy into his lap.

Sam cried then, flung his arms around Dean's neck. "I don’t wanna be better'n you. I wanna be just like you. I love you!"

"I know, I know." He patted Sam's back, rubbed warm circles and loops into his skin until he breathed easily again. "I just…you take them back tomorrow. Hide 'em somewhere in her place, she don’t hafta know. And don’t go back there again."

Sam scowled. "I won’t. I'll leave her earrings there." He rubbed his cheek. "You're not gonna hit me again, are ya?"

"No, Sammy—I promise. Never again." Dean felt like he was about to cry and Sam studied his face for what seemed like a long, long time before speaking.

"Okay then," he nodded and climbed off Dean's lap. "'M still hungry, Dean."

Dean pulled out the switch blade he'd taken off his father and kept for himself, and with it divided up the bread and cheese, promised himself he'd get milk for Sam in the morning….

* * * * * * 

The next morning, Sammy knocked on Mrs. White's door, told her he'd left a book there and made a great pretense of seeking it, and left her earrings on her buffet. Dean walked him to school after and gave him a hug before heading off to Bill Boggs.

A day or two after, Mrs. White stood in the stairwell, crying to a neighbor, wringing her hands over a lost cat. Sam knew where her cat was, and knew it wasn't ever coming back. But he'd never tell that to anyone. He smiled and skipped his way to Boggy's, looking for Dean.

  


  
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](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   


  


  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.

The boy sat at the little table and watched his brother write, his pencil working in fine swooping loops and dashes across the paper. Precise and careful, and his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration. His soft, candy-pink lips pursed and smoothed as he wrote, again and again, sometimes the tip of his tongue darted out and tapped his lip, like a kitten searching for milk. Dean smiled. Sammy was so serious sometimes. He eased away so as not to disturb his brother, and set a pot on the little coal stove. He emptied a can of beans into it, and added a few pieces of salt pork for flavor and what meat it offered. He stirred slowly, humming under his breath. A pot of water boiled on the back of the stove, cooking tea to a bitter blackness.

"Here, baby brother, ready for food?" He passed Sam a bowl with beans and a slice of bread he'd picked all the green off of, and a mug of tea. He brought a can of Borden's milk in from the deep, chilly windowsill of the basement window and poured a good slug into Sam's tea, his own as well. He passed out the sugar, a few heaping teaspoonfuls into Sam's mug because left to himself, he'd have emptied the bowl into his cup.

The night was no different than any other night they'd spent in their room under the stairs. School work, dinner, bed and every Saturday, a bath. It was regular as clockwork and Dean found the sameness comforting. After they ate, Sam sat on their bed and read, and Dean checked his shoes over. One boot was really kind of thin in the sole, plus Sam was growing fast, his shoes were getting too small. Dean's would do a while longer, he could get away with lining the soles of his boots with some cardboard but Sammy really needed new boots, no fooling. A couple of extra jobs and he could…"Ow!"

He pressed the heel of his hand against the brightly throbbing spot on his forehead that connecting hard with Sam's brought. Sam leaned back on his knees, his hands cradling his own head, staring at Dean like he'd slammed him on purpose. "Jesus, what the hell, Squirt, warn a fella before you attack him like that—and what was that _anyway?"_

"I wanted to do this, but you moved," he pouted, and then he leaped into Dean again and this time, his mouth slammed against Dean's. Dean felt a spot on his inner lip give way painfully, and blood slick his tongue. Sam meanwhile, leaned back and looked at Dean speculatively, blankly, waiting for his reaction in the much the same way a collector might watch a butterfly in a killing jar.

"Sam—what in the world was _that?"_

"A kiss," he said, his tone full of what an idiot Dean was for not knowing. "It's what you do when you like someone. And this," and he pushed his hand into Dean's lap.

"No! We don't do that," Dean cried and leaped as far back as he could on the narrow bed. "Where ya getting this stuff from? Who ya been talkin' to? You ain't been by Boggy's have yah?" he asked and rage swept over him in so fiercely, so deeply that he shook, suddenly weak with the desire to kill the man.

Sam's face flushed red, and then white as the blood drained away. He looked frightened, more than he'd ever looked when their dad was on a tear. "Don’t hit me," he begged and Dean felt like a monster.

"Jesus, I'm not gonna hit you, just tell me who showed you to do this?"

Sam jumped off the bed and stood at its side, swaying on one foot. His hand wrapped around the bed post, wringing it, worrying at flecks of peeled paint. He stared at the floor, swallowed and muttered, "It was Jeanie. She had a date in the stairwell and I watched. When she saw me, she told me what she was doing. Said it was how you showed someone you liked them."

"And did the bitch just tell you or show you?" Dean asked because he didn’t mind hurting her—he knew her pimp and he wasn't afraid of him, the guy was a bum and a pussy.

"Naw, she just laughed when she saw my…" Sam turned bright red and scraped his nails down the bedpost, sending a shower of flakes to the floor. His lips twisted up, his cat's eyes looked even more slanted for a second…before a tear rolled over his cheek and splashed against Dean's foot.

"Wha—oh. Don’t worry about that. You felt…funny down there? He asked and poked Sam under the bellybutton. Sam giggled before he remembered he was upset and scowled and turned redder, nodded. "Yeah," Dean said, "no big deal. Happens to everyone—yeah, me too."

Dean sighed and patted the bed next to him until Sam jumped back in bed. "Only, don't do that anymore because boys don’t kiss each other."

Sam gasped at the absurdity of Dean's comment. "But you kiss me all the time!"

"Do not—well, not like that. I kiss you goodnight. Not ona lips. On the cheek's okay, or right here—" He pulled Sam close and kissed the top of his head. "See? That's okay. Now lay down an' go ta sleep."

They stretched out and shimmied and wiggled until they fit together like warm puzzle pieces. Dean sighed and let himself drift…the last thing he heard or thought he heard was Sam whisper, "I don't care if they don’t, I do…."

* * * * * * 

The light struggling through the dirty basement window was what woke Dean up, and not the wet, ticklish slide of sweat between himself and his brother, wrapped around him like ivy on a wall. Sam always put out a little more heat than Dean did, but it wasn't as cold that morning as it had been. The season was turning and before long, it'd be warm every morning. That was a blessing, and a problem, Dean mused. They'd have no way to keep food cold, which meant buying daily, which meant….he'd probably have to turn part of that job over to Sam. Not that Sam couldn’t handle it, he just…well, that was his job, feeding his brother.

Dean slipped out of bed carefully, giving Sam a few more minutes sleep. He poured a little water in the pan on the stove and when the water warmed, dipped a piece of toweling into it. "Sam," he called and his brother came, grumbling and huffing, his face still sleep soft and wrinkled by the pillow, hair standing out around his head like a nimbus. He lifted his chin for a kiss, and Dean gave it, complaining about Sam's breath until his brother snorted a laugh. He shoved Sam towards the bowl Dean had set on the table, the tooth powder clenched in one small fist and a glass and brush in the other. He squinted around at the room, hissed a little.

"Headache again?" Dean frowned in sympathy when his brother nodded but it obviously wasn't one of the bad ones he'd get occasionally. Sam's eyes were red, but dry, and he didn't look sick. Dean decided he'd be okay to go to school. "Okay then, wash up quick. I gotta get to work and you gotta get to school."

Sam shoved the brush in his mouth and worked up foam while Dean flew through his birdbath. Sam took his place after Dean washed and when he was through they dressed, sat down to tea and toast.

"You come right home after school and you stay here, okay, and then we'll do something together."

Sam nodded, gave him a brief smile and ran off to school. Dean sighed. Sam needed him less and less these days….

* * * * * * 

Boggs looked up when Dean sauntered into his place. He tilted the bowler hat he wore constantly and winked at Dean. "Got a job for you," Boggy said, biting down on the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.

Dean looked at him, glanced over the other men standing around Boggy, his own little collection of scabs and bums he called his gang. Some of them snickered. Whatever it was probably wasn't good but…Dean shrugged. "Okay…."

The man opened the door to his room and ushered Dean inside. "This is a special job. I'm gonna need you to run this over to Mr. Assasi's," Boggy said, rocking back on his heels, smiling.

Dean's stomach grumbled. He smelled sausage and bread and it made his mouth fill with spit so fast it hurt. He'd given Sam almost all of the bread that morning, them being short of cash the last few days and Dean couldn't stand for Sam to be hungry. Along with the spicy scent of the meat and the buttery-flour scent of bread, he smelled tea, boiling away on the stove and He glanced around the room at the table set for one, and in the corner, a big bed. Two fox-faced boys were sitting in it, the blankets to their hips and their thin chests bare. Dean made a face. More 'foundlings'. More unfortunates that good-hearted old Bill Boggs was watching out for, bless his fucking twisted heart. One of the boys sneered at Dean, his narrow face twisting up in amusement. He licked something off his fingers and Dean turned his eyes away. He didn’t give a damn what Boggs did, as long as it didn’t involve him and Sam….

Dean thought about the offered job and cursed. Assasi. The old man was sure the mug had killed their mother. What if…what if stripping away everything that had made John Winchester a man hadn't been enough for Assasi? What if when he saw Dean, he knew him? Maybe decide his revenge needn't stop with the old man—what if he wanted to ice him, and Sammy, too? What if…Dean's eyes narrowed. Well, fuck him, he thought. The goon 'd just find himself face to face with another Winchester not so easy to kill, and even if he managed it, Sam…his Sam would find a way to make Assasi sweat blood, sure as shit, he would.

Dean flinched at movement at the corner of his eye and his hand tightened on the ever-present knife in his pocket. It was one of the of the boys in Bill's bed, up now and strolling over to the stove, his bare ass flexing as he took thick china cups off the hooks above the stove, and Dean thought how much he looked like Sam that way, thin and ribby and pinched. He thought of Sam stuffed into Boggy's bed and felt his stomach roll. "Yeah. Okay. I'll get it to him."

* * * * * * 

Assasi's 'place' was in that section of town that Dean wouldn't voluntarily go. Tall brownstones marched up each side of the street, wide, clean marble steps leading up to neat brick houses. Neatly painted doors flanked by windows, some with flowers drooping out of iron grilles, made the houses look happy. There were trees on the street and brass hitching posts set along the curbs though there were no horses in this neighborhood. A large town car, a beautiful Pierce-Arrow, rolled past him and he swung around to watch it go, transfixed.

Dean found the address at last, and trudged up to the wide marble doorsteps. A few pinstripe-suited mokes hung out on the steps—Dean could see they were packing--house guards. They let him come up the steps when he waved the note from Boggy. The package he held onto like it was gold.

The older of the men looked Dean over, taking in his ragged, tweed cap, knobby knees poking out from his thread-bare shorts. He definitely looked unimpressed.

"Wait here," he said, took the note and slipped in the front door. The other moke watched him, a cigarette barely hanging off his lip. He watched Dean like he was watching a roach and wondering if it was worth bothering to grind it into the sidewalk. Dean took a deep breath or two, trying to force the dry lump in his throat away. Time ticked by slow as ice melting. He wondered what the odds were he walked back out of this house alive. The blood between Winchester and Assasi was bad, what with the old man firing weapons in Assasi's place—killing one of his men, the mob boss was probably the reason he was parked up in jail now. Dean's eyes roamed over the front of the townhouse. This was it, the place Dad walked right in and killed Assasi's lieutenant, right in the foyer. Right under the double crystal chandelier.

At least that's what the old man bragged about when he was in his cups….

The gunsel squared his shoulders and shifted the butt in his lips from one side of his mouth to the other, a thin stream of smoke poured out of his nose, like a leaky steam pipe. Dean shifted nervously under the punk's lizard-like regard. Licked his lips and thought, fuck this—this waiting. What if this was about Boggy wanting him dead—this would be just his kind of gag. What if Assasi iced him and Boggy stole Sam, made him one of his toys? Fuck, this could all be about that, a way for Boggs to get him out of the pict—

"Yeah? Whatha fuck you want?" Dean snapped out of his half-panic to see a huge man in a neat, pinstriped suit glaring at him from out of the opened doorway. He looked Dean up and down like he was a bag of garbage tossed on the step. Behind him, the little gunsel snickered.

"Bill Boggs sent me, gotta package for Mr. Assasi." Dean was grateful his voice didn't crack.

"Yeah. The Boss said someone was coming. Din' say it was gonna be a fuckin' leprechaun."

The moke behind him brayed out laughter and Dean glared at the floor, furiously wishing he could control the hot flush that swept up his neck and made his ears burn. He kept quiet, not sure what he should say, but let him catch this fat slob on his lonesome somewhere…grubby, nail-bitten fingers tightened on the knife in his pocket so hard they ached….

"C'mon kid. Boss is in the garage." The big guy stepped out of the door and took Dean down a narrow side alley that opened into a wide courtyard. At one end of the cobble stone courtyard was an iron gate that opened into a road. At the far end of the yard was a converted coach house made of brick, one side overgrown with ivy. Two wooden doors stood ajar, made wide to allow access for carriages, now for cars. The smell of gasoline was in the air, the smell of oil, and Dean's heart skipped a beat. Cars…he loved them, loved the look of them, the smell of them, loved watching them roll past him. He wanted a car like other kids wanted…cake, or candy. Like the bigger boys wanted girls.

The fat guy took him right into the coach house--what he called the garage.

There were three cars parked there, three…Dean sighed and his hands itched to touch them. He gripped the paper wrapped package tighter and filled his eyes desperately with the sight of them.

"Whatcha got here, Louie?" The man came out of the shadows behind the cars, his shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders hanging around his waist. Dean noticed streaks of black on the pale forearms, on long, elegant hands. "Ah, ya must be my package. Hand it here, _raggazo_. Here's a dollar, getcher self some gum or something'." He reached for the suit jacket, carefully folded, and hanging over the phaeton's open door, and fished a dollar out of the inside pocket.

Dean barely heard the man, Mr. Assasi—the mortal enemy of the Winchester's. He was busy, he was, busy falling in love.

Assasi caught that Dean was overwhelmed, caught up in the cars, and he chuckled. "Hey, hey little boy. You gonna drool all over the cars. If I let you look, you gonna keep your chin wiped?"

Dean looked up at Assasi like he was…God. "I…I can look?"

"Sure, little one." The flint in the man's eyes changed somewhat—not exactly warm, more—curious. Calculating in a different way than Dean had ever seen before. Mr. Assasi gazed at him, like he was something odd…or like he was some brand new thing that he'd never known existed, instead of some punk kid Boggy'd sent 'round the way. Dean figured it didn’t seem likely he was going to be coughing out a lung in the alley in the next few minutes, so….

"This here is a touring car."

The sound of a car hood being opened snapped Dean out of his thoughts and back to the wonderful, beautiful cars. Assasi had the hood of Pierce-Arrow up, and demanded Louie bring a stepstool so Dean could look at the engine. He pointed out parts and explained them, let Dean touch the leather seats; gave him a piece of sheepskin and let him wipe down the bonnet of one….

* * * * * * 

The afternoon sun was long gone, thin strings of black shadow fell across the floor, climbed the garage walls. Dean lifted his head and paled—gasped out, "Oh cripes! Sammy!"

Assasi stopped, wiping a trace of oil off his hands and it made Dean want to take them in his own. Here he was, the boss, oiling and fueling his own cars. Dean heard his voice again, saying, _"If you love something kid, only your hands should be on it. I don’t let anyone touch these cars but me. 'Cause I love them. I know them."_

"What's the matter, _raggazo_? You got a hot date?" he laughed, and Dean gulped and shook his head.

"My brother, he's alone, we're supposed to do something tonight and I…" his eyes filled."I forgot him. Left him. I stink."

Assasi touched Dean's shoulder, squeezed. He gave him a crooked smile. "You’re a good boy-- _buon raggazino_. You love yer brother. That's the way it should be. Family is everything. I want you should take good care of yer little brother, he needs you. Here." He shoved a few bills in Dean's hand—ignoring his gasp of surprise. "Take him out, feed him, do something nice for him. And don’t forget you get that chiseling bastard Boggy to pay you, right? Now gwan, get outta here." He shook Dean's shoulder, and gave him a little push towards the door, and in that instant, Dean fell in love with Assasi. At that moment, he'd do anything in the world for him, anything. He threw a wide grin over his shoulder, and ran.

He ran all the way back to their block, took the stairs down to their little squat two at a time, and burst into the humid, wet-cardboard and boy smell of the basement.

Sam was sitting on the bed, his face blank and pale, the edge of his lip caught in his teeth. He glanced at Dean when he called his name but said nothing.

"Sam, I'm sorry, you must be hungry—cold too, whyn't you start a fire, hunh?" Dean babbled, the silence was so heavy, Sam was so quiet. He tossed a few pieces of coal in the stove and went to the bed, sinking down next to Sam. He reached up to pat Sam's head, and Sam flung himself back, away from Dean's touch. His breath hitched and a little bead of blood ran over his lip. He spat in Dean's face, the thin blood spattered against Dean's cheek.

"Hey—what the fuck—" Dean wiped at his face but his guilt made him sit there and take it.

"You stinking liar," Sam hissed. "You son of a bitch shit face liar," and he kicked out at Dean.

"Wait, wait, I got somethin' for you, I was at—" he grunted when Sam's foot clipped his hip and he fell. "At Assasi's," he gasped and Sam jumped on him, a whirlwind of fists and curses. Dean lay there, only moving his arms to cover his face. Sam slugged him, over and over until he fell forward on Dean, dripping from eyes and nose. Dean let him shake out his tears, stroked his back, rubbed small, slow circles across his back. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, baby boy, so sorry…."

"I was afraid! You were gone and it got dark and. I didn't leave like you told me, I stayed," he howled, "but next time you do that I'm coming looking for you." He ended up howling it into Dean's shirt collar, spit and snot soaking the fabric and Dean cried a little himself, and felt too guilty not to let Sammy crawl into his lap and pepper his face with kisses. He let Sam wrap his skinny little arms and legs around him and kiss him until he calmed down.

When Sam was calm enough to listen, Dean told him about Assasi, and his garage, his house, and Sam was awed. "Oh brother, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was about cars…" He nodded. "I know how you are about cars. Just…next time don’t forget," he said and kissed Dean's knuckles. Dean pulled his hand away slowly, an almost painful ache deep in his gut. He let Sam kiss his knuckles because they ached and it felt good and made him wonder how it would feel if he pushed a finger into his mouth. He bit his lip because he knew it wasn't a right thing to think, even if he knew Sam wouldn't mind at all.

Sam babbled on happily as he sat on his side of the bed and unwrapped the sandwich Dean had brought him and put the licorice whips he'd been thrilled to get to the side to enjoy later. He shoved his little feet under Dean's thigh and sighed like all was right in the world; Dean was left to weather his turmoil on his own.

* * * * * * 

Then next days were quiet, Boggs had no jobs, and food was getting low. There were a few pieces of coal left, enough for a day or two and the nights were still cold. Dean shoved another few pieces of newspaper into the cracks around the window. He gave idle thought to the wash hanging on the lines over the alley. He wondered if he could snag a blanket or two…he was pretty sure he could. If he grabbed a few, they'd make it all right. All he had to do was eat less…and maybe Boggs would spare a hand-out. If worse came to worse, they'd try the soup kitchen. And if that didn’t pan out…well, he'd think about that later.

And then Sam woke up crying, again.

Dean was getting used to them—the headaches that made his brother a ball of misery. There were days that all Sam could do was roll into a ball and cry. Days that Dean covered the windows and gave up his pillow to Sam, so he could try and rest. What he needed was medicine—something to help squash the monsters stamping around in his head—that was how Sammy described it. Sometimes it helped if he let Dean rub his temples, sing to him, low and slow. Poor Sam. It looked like it was going to be one of those days.

Dean made tea, shaking out the can to get the last of it. He added what sugar they had left and toasted the heel of the bread—all they had--on the stove. Sam was trying not to cry, now that he was awake. He took the tea with a mumbled thanks, but refused the bread. Dean watched him drink, slow sip by slow sip. He peered up at Dean. "Can you sit with me a little?"

Dean nodded and slid into bed behind him, pulling Sam in between his legs, tucking the blanket around Sam when he settled back against him with a sigh and asked, "Tell me a story?"

Dean snorted. "A story, hunh? Okay." He took the tea out of Sam's hands, tilted his head down so Dean could rub his thumbs over Sam's scalp, soothing up and down, talking while he did it.

"Okay. There was this guy, see, an' he had everything anyone could ever want, an' he had it all locked up in this big stone joint. But there was these two…knights, all shiny in armor, and they decided they should get this guy's stuff an' give it to…the poor." Dean's thumbs slipped around Sam's neck, stroked under the soft roll of his chin, than back up to his scalp.

Sammy exhaled, snuggled closer to Dean. "To the poor? Really?" He sounded kind of doubtful.

"Yeah. 'Cause that's what good guys do an' they was good guys. So they whacked this guy, right, chopped his head off with a axe an' there was blood all over the place and the guy's head rolled down the tower stairs like bumpa-bumpa-bump—"

"Ooooo," Sammy said, sounding pleased with the way the story was going.

"Yeah an' the knights, they got the gold and they got a couple of princesses, real lookers, just for them—"

"I don’t want princesses, just the knights. They stay with each other. And they keep some of the gold, right Dean? That's how it goes, right?"

"Yeah Sammy, that's how it goes. They chop off the pigeon's head, get the gold, kick the broads outa the joint—"

"And they live happily ever after, together." Sammy sounded satisfied, and not long after, he fell asleep. Dean looked down at him, still rubbing his thumbs against Sam's head. Feeling the soft warm weight of him holding him down, warming him up, from the inside out. A flight of butterflies tumbled in his stomach, good at first, but turning, twisting into something that didn't feel right.

* * * * * * 

"I need a job, some extra money. Sammy—he gets bad headaches and he needs something to help him. And we're going through food real fast now…." Dean stammered, trying to get his words out fast, before Boggy brushed him off.

Boggs leaned against his desk, rolled his eternal cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and said in a voice that dripped disinterest, "Headache powders work wonders, you know. Why don't you head down to the drugstore, hmm. They've got a nice selection."

Dean felt rage swim up on him. "I don’t have the money for it. I gotta get us food, an'…that basement is cold, an' wet. We don’t got enough blankets to keep us warm, let alone dry. 'Sides, I been over there a few times and they're starting to get wise." He wiggled his fingers. "I think they seen me lift some stuff…"

Boggs tsked at Dean's lack of light fingered skill, asked, "Are you complaining, my boy? Do you find your lodgings unsuitable? Because there are people I can rent to for more than I charge you, my dear, much more." His ratty nose twitched in a ratty way, and Dean's fingers trembled over the ivory handled blade resting in his pocket. Dean knew Boggy was talking shit, the chislin' bastard, and Boggy knew he knew it--the place was a way station to hell.

The man rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wandered over to the curtain hung by the bed. He pinched a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Sorry times now, my dear," he sighed, "there are no jobs to be had right now, and…hmmm." He looked thoughtful—as thoughtful as a rat could look. He fixed Dean with a look of false concern and asked, "Have you tried warm towels?"

"Damn it--I'll do any job—Sam needs medicine. Whatever you got—I'll do anything!"

"Will you, my dear?" Boggs smiled and motioned Dean closer. He twitched the curtain back, and glanced toward the bed revealed. Smirked. One of the pair of boys almost always at Boggs' side lie there, mostly under the covers, fully dressed, and rolled over to look at them when the curtain was pulled. He blinked slowly, scowled when he spied Dean, and Dean returned it. He hated those guys, hated them the same way he hated rats. The kid stared at him, brown eyes drilling into his, a long unbroken stare as Boggs blathered on and on. It was hot in Boggs' room, and dry, he could smell dust and the coal stove, smell ink. His eyes slid over Boggs' desk, the phone gleaming blackly on the wall. Hanging next to the phone, a calendar announced it was February but it was March now, and Sam's headaches were getting worse and worse. Boggs' voice disappeared. Through the closed door, the sound of the club leaked through, the clack of balls speeding around the pool tables, the high-pitched laughter of the newsies and runners, the lower rumble of the club members, Bogg's crew…under it all the tinny sound of the old upright piano, someone coaxing _Glow Worm_ out of it ….

Dean perched stiffly on the edge of the big bed. The boy was gone, casting Dean a sidelong, evil look as he slouched away, like Dean had won something from him. Dean ached to punch him right between the eyes. Boggs was kneeling in front of him, long, long fingers sitting on Dean's thighs like yellow spiders. "Don’t be afraid, I'd never, ever hurt you. You'll like this. All you have to do is sit still." The spiders walked up his thighs and over his trouser buttons, prying them loose. Bone thin fingers reached in, gliding over his skin and leaving long streaks of ice behind. "This isn't going to hurt at all."

Dean looked down at the yellow finger bones and closed his eyes. He filled his head up with nothing and darkness and Sam.

  


* * * * 

"Hey Sammy, gotcha something to help." He set a little sack on the floor next to the stove, and took out a small can. He swirled a little powder from the can into a glass, topped it with water and handed it to Sam. "Drink it all—I promise it'll help." He turned his back, and put the food he'd scrounged into the cupboard. "Drink that and I'll give ya canned peaches—you like those."

He heard Sam yelp happily, "peaches!" and when he turned around again, Sam was at the table, trying to drink the mixture and making a face—it was gritty and bitter, Dean knew, but the stuff was supposed to help and that was all he cared about.

Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, soft with baby-fat and warm under his palm. He stroked up his neck, tucked a few wild pieces of hair behind Sam's ear. Sam shuddered, dropped his head back to Dean's chest. "It tastes bad…and you smell funny. Where you been? Where did Boggy send you?"

"Don’t worry about that—it ain't none of yer business. You just drink this stuff and lay down, sleep some so's you can go to school tomorrow." He grabbed Sam's free hand—hard, too tight. "You gotta go to school, Sam, you gotta. Make somethin' of yourself—don't be like me an' Dad, promise me."

Sam yanked his hand away. "Quit it! Leave me alone. Stop that." His voice was high and shrill, and Dean knew he'd scared him. Sam jumped off the chair and threw himself in bed, his back to Dean. When Dean tried to get in too, Sam kicked him. "Sleep on the floor. I don’t want you touching me."

Dean gaped—on the floor? Alone? His eyes filled but he blinked tears back. "Why the hell you being like this Sam? What's eatin' you now?"

"Just…shut up and go to sleep."

Dean inched towards the bed. He took off his jacket, rolled it up and shoved it under his head. He closed his eyes, tried to mask a deep, unhappy sigh. When Sammy got like this, there was no dealing with him. Fine. He didn’t give a shit if Sam wanted to be a bitch. That was fine with him, it was only important that Sam get better, and that Dean was following John Winchester's command. If John beat the rap somehow and got out of the joint, he was gonna find a smart, fat, happy Sam. Dean was gonna show him, he could take care of Sam; he could do the job, no matter what it took.

  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)   
  


  



	3. Chapter 3

Sam waited until he couldn't see Dean anymore, and then ran around to the back of the school, slipping between the students arriving for class. No one called to him, no one took notice—he was nearly mute, withdrawn at school, and of course the other children had singled him out as 'different'. After having discovered Sam was also a dirty fighter who'd never heard of fair-play, they tended to avoid him.

He was back in the corner of the yard, where they kept the ash cans, in the blink of an eye. Along with the ash cans set against the tall wooden fence surrounding the yard, were stacks of empty crates, boxes and bags. It took him a few seconds to crawl under a crate. Through the slats he watched the yard, waiting until he heard the bell signaling the start of class. His heart beat faster—excitement made his fingers tremble. A little careful shoving and shifting allowed him to cache his books under the pile of garbage, planning to come back later that day and retrieve them. He climbed the pile and scrambled over the fence, dropped down into the alley way. He dodged his way down the narrow passage, crossing over into the rear yard of a bakery and through, ignoring the shouts that greeted him. The mouth of the alley emptied onto the street across from Boggs.

He hid behind more garbage cans, watching Boggs' front door. As he expected Dean came out, frowning at a slip of paper in his hand. Numbers drops, Sam figured—he'd be gone for a while. He settled and waited a bit more, and Boggs came out with a few of his scabs and left. Sam waited until he couldn't see him before running across the street, right up to Boggs and inside.

"Hey—whataya doin'—" Sam burst through the door and right into a knobby rail of a man, knocking his bowler to the floor. He scowled at Sam and swept it back onto his head and Sam stared—crammed both fists to his mouth, trying to smother a laugh. The guy had modeled himself after Boggs, bowler hat, single breasted plaid coat—the same brown plaid, the same brown trousers and boots—he'd copied Boggs right down to the tatty ascot and the wrinkled kerchief shoved in his coat pocket.

Sam pasted a sincere look on his face and said, "I'm supposed to wait for Bill. My friend told me to come here an' wait." He let a whine into his voice, and wrinkled his face. "I'm supposed to wait in here--he _said_ \--an' I come here an'—"

"Yeah, yeah! Geez—gwan in the back and shut the fuck up."

Sam let himself back into Boggs' office. This was the place Dean came, without him—a part of Dean's life Sam was shut out of, and Sam didn't like being kept out of anything concerning Dean.

The room behind the door was dark, virtually windowless—there was a long, narrow widow high on one wall. Gas jets provided most of the light. The room held a table and a few mismatched wooden chairs crowded around it, and behind the table sat a large black enameled stove and cabinets. There were a pair of shabby wing chairs, a card table unfolded between them. Sam felt a brief spear of jealousy—Boggs had space, room to live….

A surprisingly nice keyhole desk sat in one corner—a spindly chair pushed up against the front of it, ledgers stacked haphazardly across the top and Sam remembered--in one of the precious few nuggets of information Dean passed him—that Bill Boggs ran his business out of this room. And lived there—slept there. Sam took a deep breath. There was a curtain pulled forward to separate a part of the room. The footboard of a bed showed from behind it and Sam pulled the curtain back with a vicious yank. The metal rings rasped loudly as it flew back on the rod, startling the boy sleeping there. He jerked upright, blinking. "What—you back already—oh. Who are you?"

"Who are you? Do you live here?" Sam stared down at the boy. He knew from around town that two boys sort of lived in the club—Albert and Percy. So this boy had to be—"Percy?"

"Albert." The boy rolled fully upright, and the blanket dropped to his skinny waist. He rubbed his eyes. "…so who tha hell are you?" He leaned forward, and Sam saw that he was naked when the sheets dropped loose. "Hey, ain't you Dean's kid brother…Dan, something…?"

"Sam. When's Bill coming back?"

"Boggy? Not 'til tomorrow, most likely. Did you see Percy out there? He ain't been home in a while…" Albert bit at his thumb, worried eyes darting about, landing everywhere but on Sam.

"Naw. Did you see Dean? Was he here?" Sam had his hands in his pocket, thumb stroking the edge of a little penknife he'd lifted off a bum who might have been dead, might have been drunk—he hadn't checked. His eyes trailed up Albert's pale neck, to his wide brown eyes.

"Maybe…."

"C'mon, tell me—I'm worried, he didn't come home last night," Sam lied. "He said he was gonna bring me something nice and he never showed."

"He was okay last night, I'll say. Got in my way." Albert scowled. "Let Boggy crawl all over him—damn--don’t tell no one, okay? Boggy'll go nuts. Think he's worried about…someone knowing." Albert pushed out his lip and folded his arms. Fell back against the pillows.

Sam could feel thoughts jumping and skittering in his head, skittering and crawling under his skin and he felt like he had to scratch…something. Someone, himself…Albert.

"Show me what he did." The words came out in a rush. He startled himself but he needed to know…he knew for sure he was going to have to fight the world for Dean…how was he going to do that unless he knew what weapons were being used, what the battlefield was. He needed to be prepared, like those old-time knights in Dean's stories.

Albert meanwhile was trying to crawl away across the bed. Sam snagged his ankle and held on. Albert tried to kick him off, yelped, "I ain't showin' you nuttin'. Go away."

Sam shook his head and held on tighter, dug his nails in and ignored Albert's whimper. "Show me. If you don’t…I'll tell Boggs that you told me…" Sam thought about Boggs--what little he knew of him, and looked at a rapidly paling Albert and played a hunch…."and laughed about it—about _him."_

Albert looked scared, and Sam liked that. Knew it meant Albert was close to breaking, he just needed a little push…"If you don’t show me, I'll tell Dean you crawled all over me like Boggs crawled all over him." Sam waited. Maybe everyone around him thought he was just a kid, but he wasn't stupid.

"You stinkin' little shit—Dean'll kill me!"

Sam let go of Albert, folded his arms and waited until Albert cracked.

"All, right, come here. Take your pants off. Underwear too." Sam stopped mid-step. Blinked at Albert who sat blank-faced on the edge of the bed. "You want to know, then do it, and be fast about it."

They were on territory that Albert was sure of now, and Sam gave up the lead to him, did as Albert instructed, folded knee pants and underwear neatly, and laid them on the bed. He thought about sliding down his wool socks, but Albert hadn't mentioned them and he decided to keep them on…he lined his boots up with the edge of the rug and sat on he bed when told to. He was nervous, unsure—but this was what he'd planned, and what he had to do. His hand twisted over the lump of the pen knife in the pocket of his knee pants. Holding it tight as Albert knelt in front of him helped to ease his nerves a bit.

"Okay," Albert muttered, bending over Sam and planting a hand on either of his thighs, "don't pull my hair, and don’t kick me and don't—you just sit there, okay? I'm not gonna hurtcha. Besides, you'll like it some."

Sam was about to ask him what was with all the warning--until Albert shoved his shirt tails out of the way and put his mouth on him. Not just on him, Albert…swallowed him. Sam jumped, almost kicked Albert—"whad I say, ya little punk?—" before freezing. It felt---weird. Wet. Uncomfortable…until it became not. He felt Albert's tongue, felt a sucking tug that made him gasp and realized…it felt good. Sam kept his eyes screwed shut. His breath came shorter, faster, and something crawled in loops inside his belly. It felt _real_ good, until he imagined Boggy doing it to Dean. His stomach flipped then, and for a long second he fought gagging. Albert patted his leg and brought him back to the moment. He opened his eyes then, and watched Albert, watched the top of Albert's head bob up and down….

He shuddered, and gripped the sheet, gripped his pants, no longer neatly folded, but crumbled next to him on the bed. He closed his hand tight over the lump where the knife was. "Stop, I gotta pee," he gasped. Albert pulled back and said, "No you don’t."

"Yeah, really, I do—stop!"

"Trust me," Albert said. "Just—hush." He went back to what he'd been doing and Sam felt the feeling rush along, he really, really had to, he had to—

"Oh." He shook, and gasped, and it felt…good. Awfully good. He blinked once or twice and sagged, all the tension flowing out of him like a river—for a moment he felt totally undone. It was jake, it was…Sam pulled himself together with effort.

Albert stood up. "Told ya." He climbed back up the bed, and said, "It's different for big guys." Sam looked. Albert was big, bigger than he was. He'd never really paid attention before. When he and Dean were naked, they were just naked, no big deal. But Albert…Albert was holding himself and moving his hand back and forth fast, until he grunted and something not pee came out of him. Sam was shocked—he glanced quick at Albert's face, but Albert didn’t seem alarmed at all. He just let out a long breath, smiled—and then his face fell. "Get outta here, Sam. Get lost."

Sam grabbed Albert's hand, drew his finger through the slimy mess in his palm. Albert pushed him away, wiped his hand on the rough wool blanket, and turned to slide back under it. Sam sniffed his fingers, thought about putting his tongue to them but just wiped them on the blanket, like Albert had done. He grabbed his clothes and pulled them on quickly—the weight of the knife slapped against his thigh and stopped. He cut his eyes towards Albert, considering. Slid his hand into his pocket and thumbed the knife. Maybe Albert couldn't be trusted to know things like that about Dean. It wouldn't take much to fix that--there was a vein in the neck, or a vein in the thigh that emptied fast and it didn’t take much to punch even a little blade through skin.

Behind him, Albert let out a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was thinkin' about Percy and it made me feel bad. He's always here and now he's not and we ain't been apart since we was babies…Boggy's been looking at him different now that he's not so little anymore, y'know?"

Sam turned and looked at Albert, saw the fear and aching loneliness and felt…like Albert might know how Sam felt, sometimes. Sam took his fingers off the knife. "I'll look for Percy on my way home, okay? We're square here, right?"

Albert slid back under the covers. "Yeah. We're square—an' I know. Quiet like the grave."

"Right, like the grave…" Sam smiled. "And don’t be sorry about anything. It's your lucky day," he said and left.

* * * * * * 

It was a bright, sunny day, still a bit of early spring chill in the air, and the breeze off the water bringing with it the faint scent of the ocean….

Dean and Sam were strolling about the fish market, taking in the sights, the sounds, the hustle of activity. Watched the boys unload glistening fish, their silvery skins flashing in the bright sunlight as the sellers arranged them in beds of clean ice. The brothers listened to the shouts and catcalls, laughed at the gossip spread between the people working the stalls and their patrons.

The clam wagon was parked at the end of the block and the boys bought a few—a good treat. They ate them as they wandered a little further into the market. They skipped between the puddles of melted ice, slipped past the busy fish-mongers, tossed the shells at each other, dodging and weaving to avoid smacks and curses flung their way.

It was a good day, a day to spend just being boys, doing boy things. They chased a can between the two of them, kicking it further and further away from the market, jeering and teasing each other, bumping shoulders, elbowing ribs and before long before they were close to the river. Dean turned them, had them cutting across tracks and narrow cobbled roads, past warehouses and tenements that leaned out over the water on spindly, spider webs of wooden trestles and crossbeams. They chased each other, played a game of hide and seek until they were in the constant gloom under the train trestles, where the warehouses met each other over the streets. This part of the city Dean disliked—too dark, too wet, cold as iceboxes in the winter and hotter than hell in the summers. He remembered places like this, waiting out in the street for the old man, waiting and pretending not to be there. Looking up and watching his dad come out of one doorway or another, not knowing if he'd be smiling or frowning, almost always smelling of whiskey and other things or streaked with black, hands black, smelling of blood and smoke….

"Paaa-pah—paapah here!" A short thin boy dressed in black, wearing a floppy pancake of a cap and weighed down by a huge bag on his shoulder, waved a newspaper about. Dancing about on skinny, black clad legs, his black coat flopping around his tiny frame, he looked like a wide-eyed crow. His big eyes held about as much innocence as a crow's.

"Hey, Georgie," Dean called out. "What's the word?" The brothers crossed to the opposite curb and Dean shook hands with Georgie.

"Dean." The skinny boy peered at Sam and nodded, seeming to have decided Sam was okay.

Dean nudged Sam, "This guy's my kid brother." Dean's hand landed on the back of Sam's neck, curled a little. _Mine._ Sam just stared at the boy.

"Okay…hey, didja hear? They's all down at the river side—coppers an' newshawks an' all, dey got the meat wagon down 'er too. They fished a body out tha river and they're saying it's Percy. Two grins." The kid made a gurgling noise and drew his finger across his neck. "He was whiter'n cheese and tied up like a turkey— _no eyes,"_ he hissed at Sam, waiting for Sam to jerk back, but Sam's mouth just curled in a little soft smile and he leaned against Dean. Dean tossed his arm around his brother in reflex and hissed in awed horror.

 

"Holy shit, Georgie. Holy fuckin' shit…I was with him the other day—well, slappin' him around, poor shit. He was getting all bent out of sorts about stuff an' worryin' about…well, never mind that." His eyes narrowed and he asked, "How's Albert?"

Sam startled, jogging Dean, making him take a step back to catch Sam. "Watch it, Squirt," Dean said, and his arm tightened around Sam's chest, the warm, bony weight settled Sam, like always.

Georgie glanced quickly up and down the street, then rocked back on his heels, a picture of casual disinterest. Shrugged eloquently and said, "Eh, Albert. Ain't seen 'em, not for a few days. Figured he took off to look for Percy. Don't look like he found 'em."

Dean shook his head. "Poor stupid shit," he said. "Wonder how Percy ended up inna river like that? I mean to say, who'd wanna chill old Perce? He was just a kid. He didn't even have a job, 'sides hanging out at Boggy's. He wasn't nothin' to nobody."

Sam knelt, picked at the laces on his boots. "He was somebody to Albert," Dean heard him mutter. True, he was that. Dean couldn't imagine that Albert and Percy…that they were such friends that Albert would put himself in danger for Percy. He glanced down at Sam. Maybe it was a little like taking care of Sammy, though that wasn't so much a choice; it was under his skin and in his bones, in his breath. He didn't know anything else but putting Sam first. That's just the way it was, and as far as Dean was concerned, totally unremarkable.

Georgie hawked hard, and spit a thick blob of rust colored mucus onto the street. "Ain't that the truth--who would wanna ice 'em? Poor old Perce didn’t ever bother nobody. It was jus' him and Albert—and that rat-faced Boggs. Looks like both of them boys are gone now. Hunh. Well, that's why I keep my head down, stay wise an' just sell papers. Dean, I'm telling ya, like a pal, try'n stay away from that yegg, y'hear?" His little pinched face was full of righteousness, that it was greyed over with grime didn't take a thing from the heat Georgie felt at the injustice of all their situations. Dean looked away from the earnest appeal in the little boy's eyes, cheeks flushed pink.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up, ya mouthy little runt." He fished around in his coat pocket and gave Georgie a licorice whip and a dime. Georgie's face lit up, and he grabbed the candy, shoved a paper at Dean and beamed, harder still when Dean refused the change—Georgie's grey little cheeks went pinkish with pleasure.

"Thanks, yer a pal, Dean."

"Yeah, sure I am," Dean said and folded the paper under his arm. He grabbed Sam's hand and yanked him back up the way they came.

"Ow, quit it, you're hurting me!" Sam yelped, and tried to drag his heels, yowling even louder when he was in danger of losing his boots, so Dean stopped. He looked down at Sam; spread his fingers on Sam's wrist so his grip was less painful. He rubbed his thumb softly against Sam's pulse. "Listen little brother, I want you to promise me something. You promise me you'll keep away from Boggy and guys like 'em. Don't ever talk to him, and if you want something you come to me—only me, okay?"

Sam startled Dean by reaching up and grabbing Dean's cheeks, he pressed them between his damp, slightly sticky, little boy hands. "If I want something I'll come to you, promise," he said, his eyes so solemn and old that something cold skittered up Dean's spine. Dean could see Sam meant it with every bit of his soul. He laid his hands over Sam's, pressed them tight and closed his eyes, just for a second, before he pulled out of Sam's reach, ruffled his hair until Sam yelled at him to quit, and they chased each other back to the room .

* * * * * * 

Sam woke up with a jerk. Something woke him… some sound out of the ordinary. A small soft noise, rising and falling, a snuffling sound, and it took Sam a few bleary minutes to get that it was Dean.

Dean's fists were locked in his flat little pillow, pressing it down against his face. He was trying to muffle it--but it was plain that he was crying. For a lightning bright moment, terror burst through Sam's body, crippling him. His big brother didn't cry, Dean was a tough guy, he never cried. He wasn't built for it. Hadn't cried that day John knocked him into a wall and busted his wrist. He hadn't cried that day they came home and found the pitiful remnants of their stuff scattered on the street and no place to live, or the days that they didn't eat, or the days it was too cold to sleep…but Dean was crying now.

Dean rolled far away as he could on the tiny bed. "Go back to sleep," he growled and Sam felt a quick stitch of anger. "I mean it, go to sleep."

"No. Why are you crying Dean? Is it 'cause of today? Are you afraid of ending up like Percy? 'Cause you won't, I know that. I'm gonna watch out for you."

Dean choked out a snot-filled, watery, laugh. "That's my job, Squirt. I do the lookin' after…besides, I ain't afraid for me. I'm afraid…I'm afraid of. Of you ending up like that. I'm afraid of you ending up sick somewhere, coughing your lungs out, or some punk icing you for fun, or…or…Sammy, I'm really afraid of screwing this up, not taking care of you like I should. What if I screw this up, Sam, what if I'm just what Dad said I was—worthless, stupid—"

Sam grabbed Dean's arms and pulled them down, ignoring the red wheals his nails scored down his brother's arms. "You're not! You're not--look at me. I'm not sick, I'm not sad—I got you, and you make me happy. You take good care of me, Dean." He wiggled in under Dean's arms and waited until they wrapped tight around him. Dean shuddered out a long, moist sigh. "You always take care of me, Dean." Sam murmured. "Geez, you kept the old man from beatin' on me, and protected me from those punks on the street and…you know, you keep me from...bad things…."

"Sammy, Sammy, I'm supposed to. I love you, yer my brother. I'd do anything for you."

Sam nodded, his hair caught under Dean's chin. He lifted his head and peered at his brother with one eye, grinning. "Gimme a kiss, so I can go to sleep."

Dean leaned down to him, and tucked his fingers under Sam's chin, tilted his mouth to his. Sam closed his eyes and felt the soft press of Dean's lips against his. Dean's breath washed warm over his nose and chin. A slight hint of moisture bloomed against Sam's mouth as the pressure of Dean's lips opened his lips a bit. Dean stopped, and pulled back—only far enough to speak. "Sam…"

Sam squirmed against Dean and Dean gasped when Sam poked the wet tip of his tongue against Dean's velvety lower lip. Dean shuddered and grabbed Sam—hard. Pulled them together and groaned--pushed them apart. Sam whimpered, and tried to pull Dean back against him. It felt like his skin was on fire, like he needed Dean, to make it stop burning…

"Sam, don’t, okay? Just…don't.

"Why not, why can't I?"

"It's one of those things that…just, some things aren't right, you gotta trust me to tell you what those things are."

Sam pouted, and slipped his hand between them, into the heat of Dean's crotch and asked, "What's wrong with you being stiff like that? Or me helping you?"

"Come on, Sam—stop it!" He shivered and Sam watched gooseflesh race across Dean's skin. The stiff prick jumped against his palm, and Sam took the chance and stroked, once twice, feeling the firm heat, liking the solid weight bumping against his skin and wondering, what it would be like to do to Dean what Albert had done to him…what would Dean feel like, taste like…?

Dean grabbed Sam's wrist tight, dropped his head to Sam's shoulder and exhaled a long hot breath. "Please go to sleep Sam, okay, promise me you'll sleep."

"Okay, Dean. I'll sleep, just like this, okay?" He turned in his brothers arms, and pressed his back against his chest. Dean's arms went around him automatically, tightened just right, his hand wrapped around Sam's. Sam shimmied back against Dean, and got a slap to the back of his head for his efforts.

"Knock it off!"

Didn't matter, Sam thought. The slap had no weight to it, it was barely more than a love tap. Sam grinned into the darkness…Dean didn't know it, but he'd already lost.

"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking and fuckin' go to sleep."

Sam giggled as he drifted off….

* * * * * * 

All the next day was odd, interesting. Sam was fascinated by Dean, the way he see-sawed between loving Sam and running from him. Dean smiled at him, he frowned at him. He reached out to him--he pushed away. He let Sam kiss him—he yelled at him. Sam didn't care. He knew Dean had to stretch against this new thing—test the hold. Sam expected it.

The air got thicker, slowly…Sam sat on the bed, and watched Dean from behind a book, felt the way the weight in the room grew and grew until finally, Dean jumped up with a curse and ran out. Sam sucked in a breath and held it until the room went blurry and dark. He dropped the book on the floor, flopped down on the bed and waited.

He knew Dean was coming back, Dean couldn’t leave him, wouldn't leave, not like this….

It wasn't long before Dean was back, flushed and red, angry--but hands full of good things to eat, and he pushed Sam out of their little room and onto the street with him.

Sam tried to hide his relief, his joy. He'd known Dean wasn't going to leave him—he wasn't really worried at all. Dean would come around, he always did. He always did what Sam wanted him to, eventually. So he sat shoulder to shoulder with Dean on the curb, and ate pickles and boiled eggs, and handfuls of crumbly saltines. He ate, he watched Dean, and he thought.

Dean would do whatever he could for Sam, even if it was stupid and dangerous. What Sam wanted was for Dean to protect himself, for Sam. And since it didn’t seem Dean knew how to do that, it was up to him. It didn't take a lot of smarts to figure out what had happened to Albert and Percy— _who_ had happened to them. Boggs might look stupid but he was cagey as the rats he looked like; he'd probably been miles away when Albert, when Percy died. A thing like that…could happen to Dean, _would_ if he didn’t get away from Boggs and the murdering mugs that made up his crew...Sam shook his head. No. As long as he breathed, nothing bad like that was going to happen to Dean. He'd promised Dean he'd look after him, and he would.

Dean let out a small sound of pleasure as a cream painted Packard rolled past them, its brass side lamps gleaming. Dean followed it with his eyes, his mouth pursed around a whistle of admiration, his cheeks pink with want. Watching him, Sam understood quite well what his big brother was feeling….

Sam glanced at the car as it passed and just like that, he had a plan…a good one.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000caq31/)


	4. Chapter 4

The brick front of 445 Greenstone Street was clean and new, and nothing like the crumbling, smoke streaked building Dean and he lived in. There weren't potted trees on the steps of their building, or brass numbers nailed over the doorway. Sam stood on the sidewalk and gawked—it was like another world, and Dean came here almost every day. Sam peered about and decided, somehow, someway, he'd make himself part of this world too.

A few men in cheap suits were standing around the steps, leaning on the step's railing, leaning against the ironwork gate closing off the alleyway. Chatting idly, they gave every impression of lounging, but Sam could see that they were more than aware, every one of them--their eyes were never still, darting back and forth and up and down the street, tracking movement like cats at a mouse hole. They were restless; they were pretending to be still. They smiled and laughed and pretended not to be killers. A twitch, a turn, revealed bulges high on their sides, under those jackets. The idea of them all strapped and deadly sent a shiver down Sam's back, a tingling rush swept through him and he wanted to be closer, to touch those guns, and those clean, neat jackets.

One of the gunsels propped a foot on the stair, buffed a spotless spat clean of imaginary dust. Jerked his chin Sam's way. "Hey, boys, looks like the zoo lost a monkey, hunh?"

They laughed raucously and Sam just stared them down. He picked out a big guy leaning against the door. "I want to see Mr. Assasi," he said, and the group laughed even harder, leaning on each other as they did.

The front door flew open, startling everyone. "What the fuck? What're you doing out here? We gotta party goin' on here? Leave the little shit alone and get back on your business, damn it. Fuckin' ama-toors." The fat man standing in the door dismissed Sam and concentrated his ire on the bodyguards, who quieted and slid back to their places.

"Hey," Sam yelled. "I want to see Mr. Assasi!" Sam knew he was close to his goal but it frustrated him not to be taken seriously. He glared at the fat man and now the fat man did turn eyes to him. He glared right back, but there was something in the fat man's eyes, some interest—some amusement that wasn't necessarily cruel…Sam took a deep breath and went on. "I said I wanna see Mr. Assasi. He knows me."

The fat man blinked, and then laughed aloud—a nice laugh, Sam thought. Deep. Booming, his belly shook with the force of it. "Well, you got one hell of a nerve, that's for sure. G'wan, ya little shit—beat it. Mr. A don’t know you."

"Yes he does. I'm Sam Winchester and he knows my brother, Dean."

Chuckles trailed off as the fat man calmed. He wiped at his eyes, looking Sam up and down as he did. He frowned thoughtfully. "The lil' chauffer, that's your brother? Hunh. Tell ya what. I'mma ask Mr. A if he want's ta see a crabby little midget. Ya better hope he's in a good mood, Pudgy. Wait here."

 _Pudgy?_ Sam huffed and let it go. It was worth it if he could get Assasi to go along with his…okay, maybe it was a kinda crazy plan, but it was the only one he had, and if it worked…well, all of this would be worth it. Sam looked smugly at the crew of thugs frowning at him. He tried to look unconcerned; he nodded at them, rocked back on his boot heels, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Whata _you_ looking' at, lard butt?" one of the men snarled. "Louie's gonna come back here with a tommy gun and blow your fat little head off," he snapped.

"Fuck you," Sam muttered, watched the door, and acted as if he hadn't a care in the world. He knew how to ignore that sort of thing, and he swallowed the sting down without much thought.

The fat man--Louie—was at the door again. "The boss says you should come in. I'm warnin' ya, Pudge, ya better be tellin' the truth. Mr. Assasi ain't gonna take kindly to you trying to spread shinola up here. He's a whole lotta things, but patient ain't onea them."

"I'm on the level—he'll know," Sam said, his voice full with every bit of the confidence he didn't feel and stepped into the house, smirking at the open-mouthed thugs.

* * * * * * 

Louie led the way, and Sam grinned at how much space the man took up, wide as the front door he was, and for some reason, smelled of ginger. He looked behind him once or twice, marking Sam's progress but his expression was uninterested, blank. Sam stumbled a little, so intent was he on his surrounding. It was gangbusters—swankier than any place he and Dean had ever seen in the movies, and it smelled nice, even better than the library, or school. Sure not a bit like their tiny room, not a bit like rot and damp. It smelled like wood smoke and apples. They walked down a hallway paneled in a warm dark wood, the carpet underfoot was so thick, he desperately wanted to take his shoes off and run barefoot, squeeze his toes in it…it was bright and all swirly with pattern and color. Turkish. He knew what it was called; the old lady whose cat had gone…missing…had one in her parlor, but not nearly as fine as this one.

The big man opened a set of double doors and jerked his chin. "G'wan, he's waiting for ya."

Sam froze. The room was gigantic, just the thought of walking into it scared him. There was a long couch at one side of the room, behind it lots of windows covered with blue velvet drapes. Over each tall window was a smaller, half-moon shaped window made of colored glass, and book cases everywhere, and all of them stuffed with books. Sam gaped. He'd never seen so many books in one place before, not besides the library. He didn't know that people could have so many of their own books. His fingers itched to touch. At one corner of the room was a desk big enough to dance on and behind it sat a very handsome man. Tall, with dark blonde hair, and pale brown eyes, almost the color of whisky. He stood, and his clothes…Sam envied him those fine clothes. He imagined the man had them made to fit. They fit very nicely. The man pointed at a chair with a high back and fat cushions to one side of his desk, and Sam figured he wanted him to sit. Sam dropped down on it, startled for a second—it was like sitting on marshmallows. He covered as best he could, sat back, clasped his hands and fixed Assasi with a narrow glare. He got an assessing gaze in return.

"So…you're my boy's little brother, eh? The famous Sam I hear so much of…"

Sam felt a deep rush of pleasure, to think that Dean had spoken of him to this man. That was good. He hoped that this was the man who'd save his brother.

"Oh yeah, every time I see him, it's Sam this, and Sam that…Sam alla time, with him…" The man came around the desk and looked Sam over, slow, considering. The weight of his glance kept Sam pinned to the chair. Sam tilted his head back to keep him in sight. Mr. Assasi was…frightening, but also, fascinating.

Mr. Assasi leaned over the wingchair, trapping Sam between the chair and his body. Heat came off the man like a radiator, along the faint smell of sweat and bay rum…."So now you tell me what you're doing here and why I shouldn't put you out on the trash heap, eh?" He smiled, a wide toothy slash devoid of humor or warmth and Sam felt the weirdest urge, an urge to tell the man everything, about how he felt and what he wanted and how he longed for something he couldn't quite put a name on but he was sure this man could. Mr. Assasi…he wondered what the man thought of him, of Dean. Did he remember his father, did he remember his dead mother…?

"You're really Dean's friend?" Sam asked and his voice shook—he scowled. Didn't want the man to think he was afraid. He was. But the hell if he wanted that to show.

"His friend?" The man laughed. Brown-gold eyebrows rose high, a lot like Dean's did when he stumbled over the absurd. "His friend hunh?" This time there was a bit of warmth in the smile he gave Sam. "Sure. Sure I'm his friend. Me and Dean-o. We're good friends. Why you wanna know?"

"Because I know Dean would do anything you ask, so I'm asking you to do something for Dean."

"Oh yeah? You wanna favor, _putto_? Ha. You ain't got nothing I want. You know, grown men, that's how they do favors. They barter—you know what that means? Yeah? They trade one thing wanted for another. Tell me what you have I want."

Sam stared right into the whiskey colored eyes, stared so hard they were all he saw. "Us. You want us because we're Winchesters and people still speak of it. What my dad did, what you did. So…if you have us, you take everything that man ever had. For revenge."

Mr. Assasi stared at Sam for a long, silent moment and Sam wondered if he'd played it wrong and if he'd just bought Dean even more trouble than was coming his way. If Assasi didn't go for this, Dean's time on this earth was short, miserable and headed for Albert and Percy's useless, rotten, end…unless Sam gave up everything for him. If this deal didn't work, he would give everything--he would kill Boggy and not even care. The hell with caring, he'd _like_ doing it.

"You're something else—you're a smart little boy, ah? But wrong. You have no loyalty to your father? That's bad. That's not a good thing, to give up blood. _La famiglia_ The family, this is everything."

Sam shook his head. "He's not my dad. He said so. He said a lot of times I'm not his." Sam said it with a depth of conviction that startled even himself, and ignored all the times the man had pulled him into his lap and cried snot and tears over him, begging forgiveness and swearing to the heavens and his dead wife how much he loved Sam, how Sam was his favorite and his reason for living….

Mr. Assasi walked back around the hulk of his desk, sat and waved his hand like he was bored but willing to give Sam a chance. "Go on. You offer me a deal--now tell me _why_ you wanna deal."

"Boggy. He's messing with Dean, he's gonna end up doing Dean the way he did some guys lived with him, Percy and Albert. They've been in the paper, the "innocent angels" found dead in the river?"

Mr. Assasi stared at Sam, his fingers steepled under his chin. His face was calm but Sam saw his eyes were burning. "So. He thinks he can bother with Dean? I don’t think this is a good thing."

"Well, either does Dean," Sam snapped, "but he does it to help me. If you hired him he wouldn't have to."

"Eh." The bored look was back in force. Mr. Assasi leaned back in his chair. "What's he gonna do for me, _putto?_ What am I gonna do with two little boys? You can't hold a gun, you gonna be a bodyguard? Bite my enemies inna ass?"

"He could take care of your cars, he could run errands, he could do a lot. I'm nothing but it don’t matter. I want Dean to be safe, that's all." Sam fought to keep the emotion off his face, but he felt his cheeks flush and his eyes pricked.

The man smiled, drew circles on the desk, and Sam found he couldn't stop staring at the hypnotic movements. He stared so hard and so long he felt a little dizzy. "Well…I'll think about it. But let me ask you somethin' now. You want me to kill that guy Boggs?"

Sam shook his head. "No. You need him. You can't kill him." Sam didn't say that one day, killing Boggs would be his treat, but Assasi seemed to know that Sam was feeling something like that. He looked almost…fond.

"You got business sense. You want revenge but not at the expense of business. Smart. You tell your brother come here tonight." He stood and Sam stood, headed towards the door.

"Hey." Assasi stopped him. "You go ahead and bring your stuff. You both can stay here with me. And I'll talk to Boggs; tell him to leave my friend Dean-o alone, okay? And remember, _putto,_ business is like cars--parts get old, don't work so good anymore. You gotta take 'em out an' get new ones… _capisce?"_

Sam smiled, suddenly flooded with pleasure so intense it made him feel a little too hot, a little woozy. "Yeah, I get it. Yeah, thanks. We'll do anything for you, anything."

Assasi laughed out loud and it echoed strangely in the room. "Oh, I know you will. We're going to be close, you and me. We're going to be good friends, angel-boy, good friends."

Sam thought about that, and what it meant. He was sure there'd be a further price to pay but right now, he was satisfied. He nodded. Louie came in again, and led Sam out the big oak doors. Sam glanced over his shoulder for a last look at Assasi. The man was sitting at his desk, eyes still on Sam. In the weird light cast by the colored glass window, his eyes danced from whiskey gold, to ink, to red….

* * * * * * 

"You did what?" Dean jumped out of the rickety kitchen chair, sent it skittering back against the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, like he couldn't believe that it was really Sam in front of him—like maybe Sam had turned into something out of his nightmares. "He what? Are you nuts? You coulda got us both…damn it Sammy!"

"Dean, no, he's gonna look out for us, and he's gonna kick the shit outa Boggy, the bastard, and he said we could live with him, really he did."

Dean looked like he wanted to pop him one, but he grabbed Sam's shoulders a little too tight and shook until his teeth clacked together—it was so unfair, just because he was older and taller—Sam ripped away from Dean, rubbing his shoulder resentfully. He let his eyes fill and Dean softened—of course. "Fuck, Sam, don’t you get it yet? No body does anything nice unless they expect to get paid back. Worse, guys like this don't tell you what the price is gonna be...an' don't talk like some hood, I raised you bettern' that didn't I? Come here." He pulled Sam to the bed, and pulled and shifted him until they were curled close to one another. Sam rolled the last few inches into Dean, melted against him and sighed happily.

"It's going to be good, Dean, just you wait. It's going to be everything we never had before, like…steak when we want, an' cake, an' candy, an' ice cream every Sunday. You'll see."

 

The end


End file.
